


you hung the moon

by andnowforyaya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Derek Has Issues, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Jossed, M/M, Multi, Non Consensual, Past Jennifer Blake/Derek Hale, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Relationship(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Stiles Feels, Triggers, Underage Drinking, danny knows about wolves, like be warned there will be a lot of consent issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Things didn't really change, but then, Stiles hadn't expected them to."</p><p>Or; The Alpha Pack are gone; everyone resumes their lives with as much normalcy as they can manage. Then Jennifer leaves, and Stiles takes it upon himself to pick up Derek's pieces. That's when things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The thing with Jennifer was never going to last. Sure, she could handle the blood and the claws and the shifting on the full moon, but she was human after all, and was fortunate enough to have a life before she met the wolves in Beacon Hills, so she knew what it was like, to be normal. 

It was all very exciting for a few months before it went to shit, and Jennifer decided to leave, in search of normalcy again. "I could love you," she told Derek the night before she left, "But I couldn't love  _this_." She had gestured to the moon, to his loft, thrown her hands up in surrender. 

"What are you saying?" Derek's breath stuttered. But he understood.  _This_ was the monster. He didn't understand, though, how she could separate him from it. He  _was_ the monster. Or maybe that's what she was trying to say.

"I'm saying, I'm sorry. Maybe in a different life, Derek Hale."

She cried. She was very pretty when she cried. 

Derek was very drunk and he was telling Stiles all this, and they were upstairs in Lydia's room because there was a party going on downstairs, and Lydia was serving the wolves drinks laced with her own special brand of wolfsbane and the humans drinks with an alcohol content that was not very responsible. The party was because it was the weekend and Lydia's parents were away (as usual), but also because the Alpha Pack were gone, finally, at least Kali and Deucalion. Stiles was fairly certain that the twins would show up again sometime. Hopefully nicer.

Anyway, nearly half the school seemed to be drunkenly stumbling over each other in Lydia's living room and out by Lydia's pool, and Scott and Allison and Isaac were probably in the bushes by the side of the house somewhere trying to figure out the logistics of their polyamorous relationship, so when Derek showed up, alone near the fringes of the party, Stiles had sought him out, and poked and prodded and plied him with wolfsbane-laced drinks and matched him, drink for drink, because he was a good friend like that.

He didn't even say anything about how he totally knew Ms. Blake was going to run for it, about how he could smell her trepidation from miles away, wolf senses or not.

Derek didn't cry when he was finished, which was great, because Stiles wouldn't know what to do if he did. 

The door to Lydia's room was closed. Stiles walked over to it and opened it, swaying a little, and the room filled up again with noises from the party. He brought his hand up to his ear.

"Hear that?" Stiles said. "Dumb question - of course you hear it. That's a party. And you know what a party is good for? Forgetting your problems for a night and repressing the memories in the morning." He pointed at Derek. "You, my friend, are going to get sch-wasted tonight." 

He beamed a smile at him, the kind of smile he smiled when there was a problem that he wanted to go away.

"I shouldn't," Derek said. He was in a house full of teenagers. Things could get ugly.

"You should," Stiles insisted. "You're halfway there already! C'mon Big Bad. We've got you."

Derek knit his eyebrows together, scrubbed his face in his hands. He made a noise like a sigh into them, breathy and low. By then Stiles had already walked over, grabbed his wrist, and pulled. Derek got up without much of a struggle. They wobbled down the stairs together into the thick of the fray, and Stiles led them into the kitchen, where Danny was mixing some drinks together. He looked at Derek and something clicked, and he started mixing up another without a question.

"Awesome, thanks man," Stiles raised his cup to him when Danny had finished making three - one with the wolfsbane mix, which they gave to Derek.

"To weekends!" Stiles toasted. "And bros."

Danny cheered a little sarcastically. That was all right. Stiles would take what he could get, with Danny. They drank.

.

Stiles was very, very inebriated. Like, he could definitely tell he was way past the point of no return because he could sit down on the couch for a second and blink and then he was in the kitchen, blink again and he was laughing by the mantel in the living with some members of the lacrosse team who had made it. Derek kind of followed him, a shadow.

Big Bad Wolf following around Red Riding Hood. Stiles laughed at the imagery, realized no one was laughing with him. Derek kind of smirked, like he knew what Stiles was thinking.

"You're saying everything out loud," Derek slurred.

So he was still drunk, too. 

Well, good, Stiles thought. Drunk means he wasn't thinking about Ms. Blake.

"I wasn't thinking about her until now," Derek said, face tightening. They were on the couch again. Stiles had a red Solo cup in his hand. He placed it on the table, managing not to spill anything, and pressed his index fingers over the lines of Derek's eyebrows.

"There. Stop frowning," he ordered. 

Derek frowned some more. He caught Stiles' wrists when he tipped forward.

.

Lydia's face snapped into focus in front of him. He blinked. The world turned. There was a warm presence at his back.

Lydia was saying something. Stiles tried to focus on the words.

 _Taking you home_ , he thought she said.

 _You are very drunk_ , she definitely said. He nodded, to show that he understood. Yes, yes, I am.

She said something to the warm presence behind him. It was Derek.

Derek wrapped an arm around Stiles' middle and herded him to the door. For a moment, Stiles remembered. This wasn't fair.  _He_ was supposed to be helping  _Derek_ , tonight. This would be the last time he tried to comfort someone much bigger than he was by trying to go as hard on the alcohol as they did.

 _Taking you home_ , he thought Derek said.

 _Okay_ , Stiles nodded.  _Okay, okay._

_._

There were words. Someone laid him down into bed. He squirmed, struggling with the hoodie he was wearing. Someone helped him take it off. He stripped off his shirt, too.

The bed was very soft. Someone pressed a glass to his lips and tipped his head back. He drank, and the water was cool and refreshing.

There were more words. Stiles nodded even though he didn't understand.

He was laid down into bed again, and then arms came to encircle him around the waist, thick and strong as the cords in a rope.

He dropped into sleep.

.

He woke up and he was not in his room.

He woke up and the sun was coming in through the huge windows of Derek' loft, and his head was pounding and his back was over-warm and sticky from being pressed bare against Derek's skin. Derek shifted in his sleep, waking as Stiles was waking.

Stiles was frozen. He realized he remembered nothing from last night past he and Derek' brief exchange on the couch, and Lydia's concerned face, at one point. 

He was turned over onto his back, and then Derek's stubble was at his neck, his lips wet and warm over his pulse. Derek licked his way down to Stiles' chest, grazed his teeth over Stiles' nipple, which made him arch into the shock of feeling. His hands fluttered as Derek made a noise of approval, as Derek's tongue flicked out over him, teasing him. Stiles' breath was caught in his throat.

His head hurt. He thought about Derek and Jennifer and felt sick rising up from his belly, but managed to choke it back when Derek moved and caught Stiles' lips with his own, dragging his tongue over the seam. Stiles' lips parted to say - to say - 

No words would come. Derek licked into his mouth when he gave him access, his thick fingers coming up to play with the sensitized skin of Stiles' chest. He arched again when Derek touched him, Derek groaning into his breath.

"Stop," Stiles whispered, but it was weak and lost between Derek's teeth. "Stop," he said again, as Derek pressed forward, this time with the length of his body nearly covering Stiles' on the bed.

Derek stilled. 

But Stiles wasn't sure what would come after. When neither moved, Derek started to lower himself again, his lips nearly to Stiles' throat when finally Stiles moved, shoving at the hard body over him.

Bewildered, Derek sat back immediately, resting on his wrists and leveling Stiles with a look of confusion, and hurt, and betrayal. "What did I--"

Stiles' eyes flicked down and he saw that Derek was aroused, his black briefs hiding nothing. He scrambled out of bed and reached for the first shirt that was on the floor, pulling it on over his head.

"Are you kidding me right now?" Stiles demanded, frazzled, heart skipping every other beat. His back was to Derek. Probably not a good idea.

There was a growl in Derek's voice. "I thought we both wanted this."

Stiles turned to face him. He saw his hoodie on the other side of the bed, and went to retrieve it. Derek's eyes followed him around the room. "Yeah, well. You thought wrong," he told him. His hands were shaking. At least he still had his jeans on.

"But last night, you said--" Derek started. He seemed to catch himself. He was rearranging himself on the bed, sitting now on the edge. "You said you missed hanging out with me. You said maybe Jen leaving was a good thing."

"And I was blackout drunk," Stiles snapped at him. His hands were still shaking. His heart rate hadn't slowed, either. "You know, like completely useless and impaired and unable to make important judgment calls?"

"You said you missed me and to wait for the morning, when you were sober," Derek said. "So I waited."

"I don't know what part of _blackout drunk_  you don't understand," Stiles said. He had to get out of the loft. He felt like the walls were closing in on him. His voice may have cracked near the end.

Finally,  _finally_ , Derek noticed the state Stiles was in, took in his shaking hands and ratcheting heart rate. He smelled like something very similar to fear. It hit him without remorse in his gut. "I'm sorry." Derek ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I messed that up. I--"

"I need to leave," Stiles interrupted, shaking his head. "I'm going home." He pulled on his hoodie, too, and zipped it up as high as it could go.

"Let me at least drive you," Derek pleaded. He looked sorry, in the slump of his shoulders and dark smudges under his eyes. "You're on the other side of town."

"No," Stiles said. "I'll walk."

.


	2. Chapter 2

The week passed quickly. Stiles focused on school, because for the first time in a while, it was all that he had to focus on. It was all that he  _wanted_  to focus on, too, because when his head was filled with chemical reactions and covalent bonds, then it wasn't filled with thoughts of Derek's lips pressed against his skin, the heat of Derek's body on his, the way his heart hammered in his chest when he was too frozen to do anything else. 

What would have happened, if Stiles hadn't pushed him away?

Stiles shook his head, shaking it to clear his thoughts and refocusing on his AP Chemistry homework that was splayed out over the kitchen table. It was Saturday, and his dad was out catching up on paperwork at the station. He hadn't talked to Derek for this whole week, choosing to his ignore his texts and to let his calls go to voice mail. He didn't want to talk. He wasn't ready to talk. He gripped the pen in his hand tightly, until his own fingernails were digging into his skin. 

He wanted to balance the chemical equation in front of him. Isotopes swam in his vision, and valence electrons and bonds.

Someone knocked on the door.

Grumbling, Stiles stood up to go answer it, sticking the pen between his teeth.

The knock came again, louder.

"I'm coming!" Stiles called around the pen, irritated at the person's impatience.

He opened the door and Derek stood on the other side in casual clothes that belied his tense stature. His shoulders were hunched, one hand in the pocket of his jeans. The pen clattered to the floor.

Stiles' first response was to try to slam the door shut, but Derek stuck his foot out in the nick of time, catching it so that the door rattled before it hit its frame, instead.

"Stiles," Derek said, his voice wrecked. "Please."

His heart was beating frantically in his chest. He was sure that Derek could hear it, so he took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He told himself that Derek wasn't here to hurt him. As though he could read his thoughts, Derek said in a soft tone, "I'm only here to talk."

Stiles stepped back. The door swung open and Derek crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him. They stood there for a moment, each staring at the other but not making eye contact, Derek surrounded by a nervous air. It almost made Stiles want to laugh, how nervous Derek seemed.

"Can I get a glass of water?" Derek asked him, hesitant. Stiles nodded. He turned back to walk to the kitchen, and Derek followed him. Once the glass was in his hands, Derek drank the whole thing. Stiles thought maybe he was stalling, and Stiles never did well with stalling.

"So what did you want to talk about," he asked, leaning against the kitchen sink.

Derek approached the sink; Stiles' pulse fluttered suddenly at the nearness of him, but he refused to move, even when Derek stood next to him to place the now empty glass into the basin. Derek didn't move, either. Their arms were nearly brushing. A thought flit across his mind: He was glad to be wearing his hoodie, sleeves pulled down past his thumbs.

"You've been ignoring me," Derek started. Stiles stared down at the frayed ends of the cuffs on his hoodie.

"Yeah," he admitted, seeing no reason to lie. "I have."

"How are you?" Derek asked.

Stiles chewed his bottom lip between his teeth. He didn't know how Derek wanted him to answer. When he didn't say anything, Derek sighed, and it was heavy.

"I just - I came by to apologize. Again. But you - you've become important to me Stiles. Tell me what's wrong. Tell me how to fix this." He looked at Stiles, his eyes impossibly multi-colored. It wasn't fair how beautiful he was, and Stiles took in the features of Derek's face, the downturn of his lips, the sharp lines of his cheeks.

He had drifted very close, very suddenly, until they were sharing breaths between them.

"Der--" Stiles managed to get out, before Derek's lips were on his, bruising in force. Their teeth clacked together, the noise ringing through Stiles' ears. Derek's kisses were rough and needy; a growl rumbled low in his throat when Stiles gasped, his hands coming up automatically between them, clutching at Derek's shirt. He wanted to push him away, he wanted to pull him in closer.

"Tell me you want this," Derek breathed against him, not giving Stiles a chance to respond. Derek surged forward again with a kiss, pressing Stiles against the sink with the length of his torso. His arms had come to cage Stiles on either side of him. He was trapped in the heat of Derek's mouth. "Tell me," Derek pleaded.

Derek wanted him. Derek wanted him  _so badly_. It felt good to be wanted, but Stiles didn't say anything, even when Derek moved and began sucking a bruise into Stiles' neck. His knees shivered, weak. If Derek weren't holding him against the counter of the sink he was would have fallen to the ground.

"Touch me," Derek said next. "Come on."

Derek's hand found Stiles' like they were magnets, and he pulled their tangled fingers to his hip, and then dragged Stiles' palm across his lower abdomen. He groaned into the touch, pressing Stiles' fingers into his flesh. "Come on," Derek said again. "It feels good."

It was heady, the kiss and Derek's nearness. Stiles felt like he was disappearing. His limbs were not his own, and he was floating above himself, watching it all happen. He watched himself respond to Derek's touches and kisses, watched as Derek squeezed Stiles' hand in his, watched as with his other hand Derek brought down the zipper of his jeans, watched as he guided Stiles' hand to him, brought him out.

His cock was thick and heavy in Stiles' hand. Derek wrapped Stiles' fingers around himself, keeping his own grip around Stiles' grip, and hissed into Stiles' mouth at the contact. Slowly, he tightened his grip, and then he dragged Stiles' fist up his length, working himself.

"God, I want you," Derek breathed.

Stiles felt pressure around his throat, but it wasn't Derek at all, just his own traitorous body. When he hitched a breath, Derek smiled against his lips, mistaking it for pleasure.

He watched as Derek built his own rhythm, fucking into Stiles' fist, tightening or relaxing his grip as he wanted. He bit at Stiles' bottom lip until it was swollen, until he was panting open-mouthed against Stiles, hips starting to stutter.

He came with a grunt, shuddering against Stiles' body, dirtying Stiles' hoodie with his spunk.

Stiles shivered. When Derek stepped away, he slumped forward without his support, and that's when Derek pressed his own fingers against Stiles. His body tightened at the touch, at the firm pressure of Derek's fingers at Stiles' groin. He was hard.

So Derek took care of him, Stiles making a noise he thought he'd never made before - some twisted combination of desperation and pleasure and abandonment - and when it was done, Stiles was boneless, buried his face into the crook of Derek's neck. 

Derek cleaned them both with paper towels as Stiles shakily held himself up against the counter.

"That's not what I came to do," Derek told him, pressing another kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth. 

His arms finally gave. Stiles slid the remaining distance down to the kitchen floor, legs splayed. He felt like he was trying to breathe through water.

"Stiles?"

"My Dad will be home soon," Stiles said, voice remarkably steady. It was a lie, but Derek didn't have to know that. "I need to - I need to finish my homework. And stuff," he explained weakly, gesturing at the papers still on the table.

"Are you okay?"

Derek reached down to help him up, but Stiles retreated from his hand, tensing. If Derek sensed anything, he remained silent about it. His heart was beating so fast, but that could have been from over-stimulation. "I can get up myself," Stiles insisted. "You should go. I'll - I'll stop ignoring you, okay?"

The older man smirked, his eyes lighting up. "Oh, good." His cocked his head to the side suddenly, like he was listening for something. "I'll just--" He jerked his thumb to the door. Stiles waved at him vaguely.

He left and the nausea set in. It roiled over him like a wave, and it was all Stiles could do to push himself as fast as he could to stand and vomit bile into the sink.

He washed his hands until they were red and raw, disgust bitter in his mouth.

.


	3. Chapter 3

Juniors got lunch privileges so they could use the bleachers by the field, if they wanted, while seniors earned passes so they could leave the school for lunch entirely. Stiles and the others had gradually found themselves taking over the top corner of the bleachers overlooking the field, and it wasn't until he really thought about it that he knew how strange this would have been to Stiles just a year ago. This is where the Lydias and Jacksons should have sat, while he and Scott lingered near the bottom, their classmates looking over them as though from a throne.

Instead, he and Scott were up here with the others. They had picked it mostly because the space was out of earshot so they could talk about wolves and other supernatural happenings, but as he walked up the metal steps to the top that day with his lunch, he saw his group of friends as an outsider would see them. And how strange that he was on the inside, he thought to himself.

There were Lydia and Danny and Allison, laughing between them as Lydia popped grapes into her mouth. Scott sat nearby with Isaac, both peering at something on Scott's phone. Boyd was there, too, almost sitting guard. He was watching the field and the back and forth movement of the other juniors. They looked cut from a glossy magazine, a promotional flyer for the school. The picture would have screamed, "Look here! We are Beacon Hills! We are beautiful and diverse and intelligent. If you come here you will have perfect figures and perfect teeth."

Erica should have been up there, too. The thought punched the breath out of him. Ethan and Aiden, maybe even, if they hadn't left and hadn't been under the control of a dangerous psychotic alpha. Cora, too, if she hadn't left with the twins. The thought of Cora reminded Stiles of Derek, how he must have felt like a knife twisted in his gut when his sister told him she was leaving, how the knife was probably still there, leaving scar tissue.

But thinking of Derek made him think of other things. He sat down heavier than he intended next to Danny, whose quick easy smile slipped from his face when he looked at Stiles.

"Hey, you okay?" Danny asked him. He always sounded so sincere. "You look like you've seen a ghost." His lips quirked up, unbidden. It was a turn of phrase, but they both knew exactly what ghosts looked like.

"Just suddenly not hungry anymore," Stiles grumbled, not giving in to the humor. He held up his tray, which had upon it a small cheeseburger and a handful of fries. "You want?"

"I wouldn't want to eat that crap, either," Danny said, sympathetic. He gestured to his sandwich, something healthy-looking that he must have brought from home. Then he snatched some fries from Stiles' tray, anyway, munching on them with a grin. "Still, fries," he explained.

"Dude," Stiles said. He met his grin.

Over the past few months he and Danny had developed an easy friendship, once Danny got over how weird Stiles could be, once he realized that most of the weirdness - the frequent texts to check up on him, the constant questions, the need for Stiles to just  _know_  - was borne out of his need to make sure everyone was okay during supernatural turmoil. And Danny was easy to talk to, anyway. He teased a lot; he was sarcastic, and dry, and Stiles blended pretty well with Danny's way of communicating.

Then there was also that Danny was just really attractive, and  _really_  normal, impressive computer hacking skills aside.

"You want some of my sandwich?" Danny offered, holding up the half that he hadn't bitten into yet. Stiles shook his head. His stomach was a little queasy after the direction his thoughts had taken him. "I swear it tastes good," Danny pressed. "Despite all the green stuff."

"Ha," Stiles huffed. "I'll have you know I love the green stuff." He rolled his eyes at Danny, who simply kept smiling his pleased smile. "No, but really. Thanks but no thanks."

After that Danny didn't offer up his sandwich again. Lunch passed by relatively quickly, with Lydia leading the conversation about the next party she wanted to go to, which was going to be hosted at some senior's house. They all half-heartedly agreed to go, and then it was time for Econ with Finstock.

He would lose his shit if they were late.

He knew that Danny was paying particularly close attention to him during class, especially when Stiles' stomach rumbled in protest of his missing lunch, and Danny dug into his book bag and pulled out a granola bar. He tossed it to Stiles when Coach had his back turned.

_Eat_ , Danny mouthed at him when Stiles turned back to say thanks.

.

By the time the next party rolled around at this senior's house, he'd buried what had happened with Derek in the corners of his mind. 

After all, it was just sex, right? Derek seemed unaffected by it, so Stiles resolved to seem unaffected by it, too. There was a little pit of nausea that settled in his stomach whenever he thought about Derek, whenever someone mentioned Derek, but it was easy enough to ignore.

It was especially easy as Lydia stumbled around the house in drunken excitement and Stiles kept an eye on her. She had misjudged how many drinks she could drink in a row while talking to a hot shot senior who was a shoe-in for UCLA. Now the guy was nowhere to be seen, but there Lydia was, draping herself over the back of the couch in the living room. The skirt she was wearing was very short.

Stiles rushed over to straighten her, to save a bit of her dignity. Lydia would never forgive him if he allowed her to flash half of the senior class.

"Diles," she laughed. "I mean, Stiles. Oh my God, what is happening to me." She teetered, unstable even when she was held up against Stiles' side.

"That fourth shot is probably what is happening to you, right now," Stiles told her seriously.

"You aren't drinking," she stated, pouting. "Why." She swerved suddenly, and Stiles almost lost his grip on her. She laughed again, and this time when they straightened, Stiles hooked her arm around his shoulders and began to guide them to the front door, where Scott and Allison were already waiting. Boyd and Isaac had both left earlier in the evening.

"Designated Driver," he said. "Plus, I don't feel like drinking."

It was true. Before it got heavy, Stiles had taken just one measly sip of cold beer from it's bottle and gagged from the bitter taste. He had given his bottle to Danny, who chugged it with his throat bared in the kitchen light. After that Stiles had declared himself Driver, even though Scott had said he would be staying until everyone wanted to go.

"Booo," Lydia drawled.

By now though they had reached the front door. Scott was there with an oddly composed Allison, and he took Lydia gently by the arm away from Stiles.

"Where's Danny?" Scott asked his friend. Beside him, Allison wobbled. She frowned at herself, as though upset that when intoxicated her perfect balance was compromised.

"Upstairs," Lydia practically sang. "He's definitely upstairs I saw him go up there."

Scott huffed when Lydia tried to escape his grasp, presumably to run upstairs to fetch Danny. She shrieked happily. Stiles realized it had been awhile since he had seen Lydia laugh like that, uninhibited. "How about I go get him," he said. "And you don't break all your pretty bones trying to get up and down the stairs, huh?"

"You're surprisingly nice," she announced in response. "Adorable."

"Yeah, if you only thought that two years ago," Stiles teased, lips curving. "Or, like, two months." He turned to go up the stairs as Scott walked their friends to his Jeep, which was parked a couple of houses down. He heard Lydia laugh again, more subdued, and then Allison's ringing giggle joined it.

Upstairs, he found Danny in a bedroom. It looked like a little sister's. He was sitting on the small bed that had immaculately-made purple covers flipping through a young adult novel. When he looked up and saw Stiles, he laughed, showing the book cover to him. "Vampire High School," he read. "Figures."

"What figures?" Stiles asked him. "That you enjoy supernatural young adult romance fiction?"

Danny rolled his eyes at him. He did that a lot, but he smiled while he did so, taking the edge off of the gesture. "No, that the first book I pick up is filled with supernatural creatures. They got werewolves wrong, by the way, in this. The Alpha form doesn't really  _look_  like a wolf, you know?"

Stiles said nothing. Danny frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You just - like - you just totally shifted on me. You've been doing that for a while. I don't even think you know you do it. Your face just - changes." His voice was tinged with concern. He'd gotten up, walking closer to Stiles. He reached out a hand as if to feel Stiles' forehead for a fever. Stiles flinched away.

Then, realizing what he'd done, Stiles laughed. "Oh, ha ha. Changes into something unattractive probably, huh." He pointed at Danny's face instead. "Not all of us are blessed with the perfect cheekbones and nose and general combination of awesomeness."

Danny shrugged. "You're not half-bad, Stiles."

Stiles blinked. That was--

"That was like the shittiest compliment anyone has ever paid me. I'm not  _half-bad_?" He gesticulated with his hands at random. "What's full-bad? Like, where is this face going wrong?"

Danny sat back down on the bed and said, "Come here," and Stiles blinked again. He went to sit next to him, the mattress dipping and creaking from their combined weights. "You're being weird," Danny informed him. "Like, more so than usual."

"I'm not being weird," Stiles protested, gaze slipping away from Danny.

"No, you really are," Danny said. He put a hand on Stiles' knee, not gripping or anything, but just laying it there, like a reminder. "We, like, lose you sometimes in conversation. And you're really jumpy."

Danny's hand was like a brand on his knee; the entirety of his focus dwindled down to the point where his palm made contact on Stiles' jeans, where the heat was seeping through the fabric. He stared at Danny's hand and gulped. "Uh," he managed.

Danny looked down at his own hand, looked at Stiles' face, and slowly, cautiously, lifted his hand away.

"I," Stiles said, choking on his words. "Well, you see. You see."

"Hey," Danny coaxed. "Hey, it's okay. You don't owe me an explanation or anything. I just wanted to check that you were okay." He lifted his hand again, went to place it on Stiles' shoulder in a show of affection, or unity, or whatever. It didn't matter. Stiles didn't want it anywhere on his person.

"Don't touch me," he blurted, flinching again just before Danny made contact. "Please don't touch me."

Danny froze. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I won't touch you."

When he said those words relief flooded through Stiles like a tidal wave. It brought him crashing down until he was cradling his head between his knees, heaving breaths. He could sense Danny's hands hovering over him, wanting to comfort but trying to respect his wishes. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt wetness leaking out the corners, trying to get control over his body again. 

"Something happened to you. You don't have to say it. You  _can_ say it, you know. To me," Danny murmured, his voice as soft as a caress. "If you need to talk."

Stiles shook his head. He started slowly to sit up, the wave of panic passing, his heart settling again into its normal rhythm. After a few stabilizing breaths, he looked at Danny.

Danny's face was like an open book. There was sincere concern there, and understanding, and underneath it all, a hint of anger.

"You know," Stiles realized aloud, horrified. "How long--"

"Who," Danny demanded. "Who was it?" Even though the anger was curling over him like smoke, Danny still exuded concern. His expression was soft, and safe.

Stiles shook his head. "It's nothing. No one."

"Stiles--"

"I  _can't_ tell you," Stiles cried. He sat on the bed, miserable, thinking of Derek's hands on him, how Derek had made him feel, how he'd made Derek feel. He'd spent weeks not thinking about it, pretending it hadn't happened, and now here he was with Danny on a little girl's bed having an episode. He stood suddenly, not wanting to be on a bed anymore.

"It's someone we know, isn't it?" Danny guessed. "Stiles, if someone hurt you, if someone did something to you that you didn't want, didn't like, you should tell someone. It's not snitching. It's being safe."

"I can't," Stiles repeated. "I can't. I. I'm going downstairs. We're going home. Come downstairs when you're ready."

Danny was ready, but Stiles fled while he was standing. The bottom two stairs tripped him up a bit, but soon enough he was outside in the wide open space, and the sky was an inky blackness that was not pressing down on him. He jogged his way back to the Jeep and started it up with Scott and Lydia and Allison already inside. Lydia had fallen asleep, and Allison was nodding off, both slumped together in the backseat. Scott had taken the perfunctory best-friend shot-gun seat.

He eyed him when Stiles climbed into the driver's side.

"All good?" he asked.

Stiles nodded, not trusting his own voice. He turned on the radio and found a station that was heavy enough for conversation to be a struggle, but low enough that the ladies in the back were not disturbed. A few minutes later, Danny appeared, walking calmly over to Scott's window, which was already rolled down.

"You okay to drive?" Scott asked him. Danny had driven over in his own car. The plan had been for them to take two cars back, before everyone realized that the wolves didn't really need a mode of transportation, if they were being perfectly honest. More room for the humans, then. 

"Yeah," Danny said, giving Stiles a meaningful glance.

They parted ways with the promise that they would text one another once they got home, to make sure no one had crashed and burned along the way. After Stiles had dropped everyone off at their respective homes for the night, he drove back to his own place, longing for sleep.

The house was silent. His Dad had already fallen asleep, too; Stiles could hear his light snoring when he reached the second landing. He'd stripped and changed into his pajamas by the time he thought to check his phone.

When he did, there were two messages.

One was from Danny. He'd gotten home safe. He wished Stiles a good night.

The other was from Derek. 

_I want to see you,_  was all it said.

Stiles deleted it.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has now been effectively Joss'd. It's TOTALLY AU. Like, SO AU it developed from a different mass of chaos. Fair warning.

_Come over for dinner_ , was the next text from Derek.

 _First time dads home in a while. Staying in_ , Stiles sent back quickly. It wasn't even a lie, but his palms still sweat.

.

Gradually, school began to wind down, and so did Derek's attempts to communicate with him. 

Instead of going over to Derek's place on the weekends, like they usually did, Stiles made plans with Danny and Lydia, or sometimes just one of the two, always out and away and inaccessible. He video-chatted with Scott frequently, and it was also reminiscent of the days before the bite, when they spent their evenings being ridiculous over the internet and building worlds in cyber space. Danny even joined them, sometimes; and once, Isaac. He didn't much like it, though, and Boyd rarely wasted time in front of a computer.

It didn't feel too different, though he supposed it really was. He didn't even realize it  _was_  different until Scott complained that he never saw Stiles anywhere anymore except for at school, and that hardly counted because this semester he and Stiles weren't even in any of the same classes. 

"I miss you, man," Scott whined over the phone. "I miss my Stiles-buddy."

"I don't know what to tell you," Stiles said, though he was smiling. He'd taken over the couch in the living room and was idly flipping through channels while his dad attempted to put together some pasta for dinner. He'd insisted. "I've been--"

"Busy, I know," Scott finished for him. "You've been hanging out with Danny an awful lot, recently, you know," he mentioned, a little teasingly. "What's up with that?"

Stiles shrugged before remembering that Scott couldn't see him. "He's fun; he's cool. I don't know. We click."

Danny had stopped asking about what happened to Stiles, too, seemingly content to let Stiles come out with it when he felt like it.

"You click, huh?" Scott repeated in the same tone of voice someone might use when accompanied by waggling eyebrows. "Why don't you guys come over to Isaac's and click a little on Saturday, okay? Derek's away for the weekend. He's, like, visiting friends somewhere. I didn't even know he  _had_  friends outside of Beacon Hills."

He felt his heart skip at the mention of Derek's name. This was getting ridiculous. It was getting easier and easier not to think about him, about what happened, but every once in a while there would be a slip up.

But Derek hadn't bothered him in a while. And besides, what happened between them had happened because he was distraught, because he was coping with the loss of Ms. Blake. It wasn't like - it wasn't like Derek did this on a regular basis to people he knew. It probably wouldn't happen again, now that it was out of his system.

"Stiles?" came Scott's static-y voice over the phone. "So, you coming?"

Stiles gulped, surprised that he'd been lost in his own thoughts. "I'll, ah, ask Danny and Lydia, too," he recovered swiftly.

"Awesome," Scott said, and Stiles could hear how he was beaming over the phone. "This is going to be awesome. Yes. Okay - see you then! I have to go."

He hung up.

Stiles texted Danny. He didn't think he'd want to go without him.

.

It was normal. Isaac and Scott were already ensconced in front of the television playing video games by the time Stiles and Danny and Lydia arrived, and they had already ordered pizza, which was on the way, and Allison was picking up brownies from the bakery near the center of town. Boyd had opted out. But this, also, was not surprising.

Isaac answered the door. Scott upended the bowl of popcorn at his side when he jumped up at the sight of Stiles, throwing the controller to the floor and bounding over to him, uninhibited. Isaac winced at the mess, but sighed fondly at Scott, who was busy wrapping his arms around Stiles' middle and swinging him around in a circle and into the apartment.

"Woah, woah. Dude. You're gonna get me sick," Stiles said, laughing at Scott's over-enthusiastic response to seeing him, though he supposed it  _had_ been a while. Abruptly Scott let go, and Stiles almost toppled over at the sudden stop.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just good to see you. Like,  _see you_ , see you. You look--" Scott sniffed. He glanced at his friend, looking Stiles up and down with a pinched expression. "You okay?"

"Pff," Stiles returned. Lydia and Danny were coming in, too, taking up some spots on the couch and facing the television. "What do your werewolf senses pick up, now. I swear if you smell something funny it's not my fault. I'm trying to get my Dad to eat more pomegranates. Weird, right?"

"It's not pomegranates," Scott said, frowning.

Stiles shifted on his feet, stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I'm fine. Just tired," he told him. "Who would have thought being a normal human kid would be so exhausting?" He tried to smile.

Scott said, "Yeah, that must be it," and Stiles exhaled in relief.

Then Allison came in with the brownies, which Isaac claimed to have smelled over a mile away, so he got first dibs, which devolved the group into a thumb-war tournament to determine who would get the first brownie, and this before the pizza came, and before they decided to open Derek's fridge to pull out the beers he kept on his bottom shelf. Lydia had even brought some of her wolfsbane hybrid powder, which she sprinkled into the bottles meant for the Weres. 

They knocked bottles, cheering, as Lydia and Allison tried their hands at the game Isaac and Scott had been playing, and racketing up more points than the boys.

It was normal, and  _fun_ , and Stiles had missed this; he'd missed Scott, who was pressed up right next to him on the couch, warm and solid. He was sandwiched between Scott and Danny.

Then keys jangled in the lock at the front door.

Stiles turned to Scott, eyes sharp, panic rising quickly to his throat. He tried to push it back down as he asked, "I thought Derek was out of town?"

"I guess he got tired of his friends." Scott shrugged. He rose from the couch easily, swaying a little to gain balance after drinking that wolfsbane-enhanced bottle that Lydia handed to him, and walked over the front door, letting Derek in.

It was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, when Derek looked at him, when his eyes found Stiles'. Stiles swallowed compulsively, and Derek's eyes tracked the movement. 

He looked the same. Of  _course_  he looked the same. Dark shirt and dark jeans and eyebrows that were dipping low as Stiles stared, as his heart picked up, as his pulse fluttered at his throat. 

"I brought the pizza," Derek said, lifting the four boxes in his hands. He broke his gaze away from Stiles and breathing rushed back into existence for him.

Fingers tapped along Stiles' forearm, and he nearly snapped his neck to look at who was trying to get his attention. It was Danny.

His lips were in a tight line. "You got some wolverine claws, there," Danny whispered to him, nodding down at where Stiles was gripping Danny's wrist so tightly his fingers were losing color, and the skin around his grip on Danny was blooming red. He counted to three in his head, and made his fingers let go.

"Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly. Derek was in the kitchen now, hidden from sight. He'd brought the pizza in there with him, and Isaac and Scott had followed him quickly.

"It's okay," Danny said. He looked at the doorway where the living room turned into the kitchen, and frowned. "We don't have to stay," he said next, low enough that even the werewolves wouldn't be able to hear him.

He knew.

Danny was smart. Danny could put two and two together and finish a sudoku puzzle. He'd put Stiles and Derek together and gotten - maybe not everything, but he  _knew_.

Stiles swallowed again, the lump disappearing from his throat. He was here for Scott, and for Isaac, and for Danny and Lydia and Allison. Derek could go fuck a tree, for all Stiles cared. Or so he told himself.

"No, it's fine."

Danny nodded. He moved so that his fingers were light around Stiles' wrist instead, and then he just held him there, steady. "Okay."

.

The night continued. Drinks were had. Stiles didn't want much, but his friends were all in the mood, and it was still nice to be around them, even if Derek kept shooting glances at him when he thought Stiles was looking. It was difficult not to look; Derek was a buzzing electric light and Stiles was drawn to him.

Once, he looked, and Derek bared his teeth at him, smiling.

Stiles shuddered, and turned back to Danny on the couch.

They were going to put on a movie.

Lydia demanded a seat on a cushion, and then demanded that Allison sit next to her, so as Danny loaded up the movie - some bromantic comedy that came out at the beginning of summer - and hooked it up to the television from Scott's laptop, they shifted a little bit on their seating. Lydia and Allison and Scott on the couch, with Stiles and Danny at their feet, and Derek in the armchair to the side, Isaac on the floor next to him.

Halfway through the movie Allison asked for another beer. But Lydia had already draped her legs over Allison's lap, and refused to move. "I am queen and this couch my throne," Lydia drawled. "You do not move a queen."

"I'll get them, your highness," Stiles offered, rolling his eyes at the behavior but relishing the excuse to get up and move his legs around a bit. He'd been feeling restless, and like everyone's eyes were on him. It was exhausting  _not_ looking at Derek. 

He rose and stepped over Danny's long legs to go to the kitchen, opening the fridge and finding the very last of the beer supply in the back corner of the bottom shelf. He peered in, body half in the cold unit, and sighed. Werewolves really could put them away.

"Need help?"

He startled, banging his forehead against one of the shelves. "Jesus!" He turned and Derek was very close to him. He could barely close the refrigerator door without clipping Derek in the process. "I'm good, thanks."

Derek didn't move. He took a step closer, reaching an arm out.

Stiles stopped breathing. He willed his lungs to work, but they wouldn't. All he could see was Derek's hand so close to his face, and Derek's eyes, fractured and large.

Then Derek stepped back, a beer in his hands.

Stiles released the breath he was holding.

Derek smirked.

"Don't even think about it," Stiles blurt out before he could stop himself. His eyes widened.

"Think about what?"

He didn't know what. He hoped Derek wasn't really thinking about anything, that he would just take the beer and leave, and leave Stiles alone. Stiles shook his head.

The expression on Derek's face didn't change. He kept on smirking, and it reminded Stiles that he was a wolf. A predator. Stiles swayed. "About this?" Derek said, and then they were kissing.

Derek kissed Stiles like Stiles was being punished, and maybe he was. He held the back of his neck tight and crushed their lips together, and he nipped with sharp teeth at Stiles' bottom lip. Stiles let out a cry; Derek swallowed it in his mouth.

Stiles pushed at him with his hands, but Derek was a wall, unmovable and heavy, and as they kissed it was like he was bleeding the life right out of Stiles, like Stiles was a thing for him to suck up and spit out. It hurt.

There was a moment where the pain shifted into pleasure, and that hurt even more.

"Hey, what's taking--" 

Danny's voice.

Suddenly he could breathe again. He opened his eyes. 

Derek had stepped away, and he was glaring at Danny, who was now next to Stiles. Someone had closed the refrigerator door, but Stiles still shivered.

"What do you think you're doing?" Danny asked Derek, the calm in his voice belying the tight fists he held at his side, the way he jut out his chin in challenge.

"None of your business," Derek bit out.

"You were hurting him."

"I wasn't." Derek glared at Danny, his eyes flashing red. 

"You  _were_ ," Danny shot back. He didn't have alpha eyes, but if he did, they would have flashed red then.

"Danny," Stiles pleaded. He put a finger to his own lip and it came away red with blood. Derek had bit him. He licked the bead of blood up, the taste metallic. "Danny, Derek,  _please_."

Danny turned to him. Derek blinked, his eyes returning to their normal human color.

"I just want to go home, now," Stiles whispered. "Okay?"

Danny nodded once, terse, nearly hissing when Derek tried to put an arm around Stiles in concern. Derek drew back, alarmed. He stayed in the kitchen as they walked out.

In the living room, Scott and Isaac were already passed out from the wolfsbane. Lydia was braiding Allison' hair, and Allison looked like she was in total bliss.

"We're going home," Danny announced to the two girls. "You guys okay, here?"

"Why wouldn't we be?" Lydia asked, confused.

Stiles pleaded with Danny again in a single look.  _Don't tell. He won't hurt them. Just me. It's just me._

He could tell Danny wanted to tell. He hesitated before turning back to Lydia and saying, "Never mind."

Lydia shrugged, and that was that.

Danny drove them back to Stiles' place, and the ride was silent the whole way.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience uwu
> 
> What will happen after Danny drives Stiles home??


	5. Chapter 5

He invited him in, and Danny took the invitation. The blood was running hot through Stiles' limbs; he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, and he thought that maybe Danny sensed it. The way he moved was soft, like a cat sneaking up on its owner, silent and wary and thorough.

They went up to Stiles' room and could hear Stiles' Dad snoring from down the hall. Rather pointedly, Stiles left the door open.

Just as pointedly, he went over to check that his window was shut, that the latch was slotted into place. Danny sat at Stiles' desk with his laptop bag balanced on his thighs, looking through the various knickknacks that his classmate kept on the table. There was a Rubiks cube, with two sides finished in one color, and other puzzles that Danny thought could keep a mind like Stiles' occupied for short periods of time - whenever he needed something in his hands to focus on text, or whenever he needed something trivial to focus on. 

Distractions.

Danny put the Rubiks cube back onto the table just as Stiles made his way to his bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, gripping the sides and gesturing vaguely behind him at the sheets. "Sorry for the mess," Stiles mumbled, not sounding very sorry at all. The sheets were in disarray. So what.

"You should see my sister's room," Danny told him, smiling. 

Stiles flashed him a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He brought his thumb up to his lips and chewed on the nail. He put his hand back down again, sighing.

"Sorry," he said, for no reason at all. There was something in the way he looked at Danny that made Danny want to move closer to him, to examine him. Stiles had never looked like that before. Danny had seen Stiles exhausted and he had seen Stiles jittery and anxious and happy and angry and twitching on medication, but he had never seen him look quite so lost.

He tamped down on that feeling and turned away from him on the swivel chair. He opened up Stiles' laptop, the screen blinking on. "Let's play that game you always play," Danny suggested. "You know, the one that I always beat you and Scott in."

"Ha," Stiles laughed. "Hilarious. If by 'beat' you mean 'lose horribly with 90% of your army wiped clean.' If that's what you mean. Gimme." His hands reached out to Danny. 

Danny unplugged the laptop and handed it over, and then Stiles scooted up his bed until he was against his headboard, kicking off his shoes in the process. He sat there with the laptop open and waited. Danny pulled out his own laptop from his bag that he placed onto the floor and set himself up to join whatever session Stiles was starting on his screen.

They played in relative silence, volumes on both of their machines set low so as not to wake Stiles' father from sleep, until Stiles' avatar lagged on Danny's screen a few more times than normal, and Danny looked up to see Stiles staring at him with that peculiar look on his face again.

Their eyes made contact. Danny's avatar died on screen. Stiles shut his laptop, effectively ending the session. Another moment passed in silence before Stiles finally said, "Thanks, man."

Danny shrugged, thinking Stiles was done with expressing his gratitude, but Stiles was just getting started.

"For not saying anything," he continued. His fingers drummed against the hard lid of the laptop, like a heartbeat. "For taking me home. For playing this stupid game with me."

"Woah," Danny began, wry smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Don't insult the game."

"Danny," Stiles said, heavy.

Danny sobered. "You're welcome," he said.

Stiles brought his thumb up to his mouth again, started chewing on the nail there. It used to be the strings of his hoodies, or his pens, or his sleeves. Now Stiles chewed on his nail, stopped abruptly, and then he said, "I don't understand what's happening."

That feeling came back over Danny - the one that made him want to get closer to Stiles, but he wasn't sure if that was what Stiles wanted, if he would appreciate that at all. He closed his own laptop and put it on the desk, and then he leaned forward onto his knees. "What do you mean?"

"I mean - between me and Derek."

Danny wrinkled his eyebrows. "What  _actually_ happened between you two, anyway?"

Just like before, like he'd been noticing, Stiles' face suddenly changed, like he was looking at something very far away. Now, though, Danny knew what he was looking at. Or more specifically, he knew what Stiles was remembering. 

He was remembering Derek. Anger curled hot in the pit of his stomach, but he dampened it, because Stiles didn't need to see that right now.

"Nothing," Stiles said. "I mean." He spoke without his usual candor, voice flat and without inflection. "A lot of things. Happened. It started at that party. You remember. He came? He and Jennifer broke up. He was really sad. I got pretty drunk that night."

Stiles laughed, hollow. He didn't look like he was going to continue, his face darkening.

Danny scooted closer in the chair, the wheels squeaking.

"Derek took me home," Stiles whispered. "I fell asleep. I woke up. He tried to kiss me. I left." He looked away, and then down. He chewed on his thumbnail. Stiles felt like an elephant was stomping on his chest, like the words were holes torn out of his body as he said them, but they needed to be said. He'd been holding them inside himself for so long, and now that there was a leak, now that there was Danny, they came spilling out. When he looked up again, hot tears were gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his voice broke. "He came back and we - we did some things. It was. Good. It felt good. But it was also--"

He gulped. Danny's eyes smoked with some intense emotion. He tried continuing but found himself voiceless. "What?" Danny prompted, surprisingly gentle given the way his face seemed set in stone.

"Scary," Stiles admitted, looking away again. "It happened again tonight. And I don't know. What to do."

"Tell him to stop," Danny said. "Tell him you don't like what he's doing."

"But I do!" Stiles said quickly, louder than intended. He winced, listening for his father down the hall. He was still asleep. "I think I do. I don't know. It's very. Confusing."

"Scary and confusing don't sound like things you need in your life, Stiles."

"I didn't ask for this to happen."

"You can say no. You're allowed to do that, dude."

Stiles sat there like a deer in headlights, his thumbnail caught between his teeth. Danny rose slowly, walked the short distance to the bed, and sat down on the side, closer to Stiles but still a comfortable distance away. "Relationships shouldn't be confusing and scary," Danny continued. He felt foolish saying the words, because Stiles knew this. He was fairly certain that Stiles had written a midterm English paper on power-imbalance and sex in certain literary relationships.

"Derek's always been confusing and scary," Stiles said.

"That's not an excuse."

Danny kicked off his shoes. He glanced at the spot next to Stiles by the headboard and waited for Stiles to nod. Then he shuffled himself up to sit by him, removing the pillow to hold in his lap. "I'm not going to tell you what to do," Danny began again. "But I'm going to tell you that whatever is going on between you two, it's not a good thing, okay? That's what I sense from it. It's not a good thing. And you've spent pretty much your entire high school career dealing with not-good things. So I, for one, think you deserve a break. Right?"

Stiles didn't move closer, but he didn't move farther away either. He finally stopped chewing his thumbnail and looked at Danny, the focus unnerving him. "So does Derek," he said.

"Derek doesn't make you feel safe anymore," Danny said plainly, putting his thoughts into so many words. Stiles squinted at him. "Relationships should make you feel safe."

He saw the golden color of Stiles' eyes, the sharp upturn of his nose. Stiles was pale, and wiry, and from this angle he could see the places where his collarbones dipped, creating hollows. There was a vibrant red spot on his bottom lip where Derek had nipped him. He looked vulnerable, but Danny knew that he was not.

"You're safe," Stiles told him, golden eyes flickering down to Danny's lips and back up again. "Right?"

"Yes," Danny agreed resolutely.

Stiles nodded. He was leaning in, now, their shoulders brushing. He said, "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes," Danny said.

It was a soft, brief touch of lips against lips. Dry and quick. Stiles pulled back like he'd been shocked, like kissing Danny had been electric. He was smiling. They were both smiling.

"You can do that again," Danny said.

"Okay," Stiles whispered. He did it again.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -rolls off a cliff- guys this is really emotionally exhausting to write


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the tags because this chapter is not pretty. Also check notes at end for more specific chapter warnings.

Things didn't really change, but then, Stiles hadn't expected them to. He kept hanging out with Danny. He kept hanging out with Lydia. He saw Scott when Scott wanted to see him, kept the phone and video lines open.

He thought maybe he and Danny were a thing. He wasn't sure. He didn't ask, and Danny didn't push. Stiles wasn't sure if he wanted to be pushed, by Danny. Maybe he did. 

He liked it when they kissed, which was happening more often. Once, a couple of weeks down the line, Danny even kissed Stiles by his locker at school, and in English class Isaac wouldn't stop throwing crumpled up paper balls at them both, with  _Mr. and Mr. Mahealani-Stilinski_  scrawled on all of them. When Stiles looked back at him Isaac grinned, gave him an a-okay sign and a wink.

He heard about Derek through the others, sometimes. It sounded like Derek was looking for a job, just something part-time to keep him busy. Stiles didn't keep tabs. He didn't care.

Except when he thought about Derek, in the hazy half-wakefulness before dreaming, he  _did_ care. He wanted to know what Derek was up to, what Derek thought about, if Derek thought about  _him_. It made him sick.

Sometimes, he imagined scenarios where he confronted Derek, and they felt so real he could get lost in them. He'd walk right up to Derek's apartment. He'd knock on the door. Derek wouldn't answer, but the door would be unlocked to him. Stiles would walk right in.

Maybe Derek would be in his kitchen. He'd be doing dishes because the pack came over last night and left a mountain of them in the sink. He wouldn't have heard the knocking over the sound of the running water.

"Derek," Stiles would say. "We need to talk."

And Derek would still. He'd say, "Hey, you surprised me," with a little smirk to his lips when he turned to face Stiles. "What are you doing here?"

"You know why. We _need to talk_."

Stiles would walk up to him. He'd take the clean dish out of Derek's hand and put it in the drying rack, and he'd say, "Sit down," and Derek would sit down at the table, looking up at Stiles from under his lashes. He'd listen to him. 

Derek would listen while Stiles spoke, while he told him how confusing he was, and how he  _hurt_. And Derek wouldn't interrupt him or roll his eyes or anything, but he'd stand up when Stiles told him to and get on his knees when Stiles told him to.

He'd let Stiles hold his arms to his sides and he'd tilt his chin up and he'd kiss gently, maybe like Danny did, soft and dry and warm, and he wouldn't put his hands on Stiles. Stiles wouldn't let him.

But Derek was strong. Maybe he wouldn't listen. If he didn't it would be easy for him to overpower Stiles, for him to hold Stiles' arms to his sides instead, for him to press Stiles against his kitchen table and bruise him. Stiles bruised easy. It would be easy, anyway - Derek and his strong hands and thick fingers, his stubble and the jut of his hips.

" _Hey_."

Stiles startled out of his daydream, heart hammering in his chest. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with his chemistry book open on his knee, a pen gripped tightly in his hand. Danny was sitting at his desk, mouth turned down in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The answer was automatic. It made Danny frown completely. Stiles hurriedly read the text that was open in front of him, trying to catch his place. He felt sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, and his pulse was still much too fast. If he tried to calm his breathing, black spots danced in his vision.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" Danny sighed. When Stiles looked up he saw how ragged Danny looked, how worn. Had he worried for Stiles so much? Stiles hated how exhausted other people got caring for him. He wanted nothing more than to lift Danny's chin from his chest and tell him that he was okay.

He didn't, because Danny saw through all of that. Instead, he said, guiltily, "Yeah. I'm sorry. I don't--"

It's not like he  _wanted_ to think about Derek. But his mind was a traitor and he was obsessive by nature. His body hadn't learned yet how the combination was wearing him out, making him crazy. He  _wanted_ to think about Danny. Danny deserved to be thought about.

"Don't apologize," Danny said. "You have nothing to apologize for. I wish you would talk to someone, though. Even if it's not me."

It was true; he hadn't wanted to tell Danny the gritty details. He didn't see how it would help, anyway. And who else would he talk to? He couldn't think of anyone who would have an acceptable reaction, and so who was left? A shrink? 

"I'm fine," Stiles said. "I don't need to talk to anyone like that. I just need - I'm just working on forgetting that it ever happened, okay? And then as soon as I think I've forgotten it comes back, so it's a little. Frustrating."

Frustrating wasn't the right word to use. Terrifying, maybe. He'd lost count of the times he'd woken himself from sleep in a half-panic with his hand down his pants. He thought maybe he was developing a disorder.

"Anyway," Stiles added quickly, pushing the thought away, "What did you get for this question? I can't find the answer anywhere. And by anywhere I mean none of the bold words are right."

Danny tilted his lips up. A partial smile. It made his face seem lighter, like he'd cast off a shadow. Stiles found himself smiling in response, and Danny explained the answer to him.

.

It got better. Days were almost normal again. And that meant  _high-school_  normal, even. Not supernatural normal. It was almost boring.

They talked about Junior Prom. They talked about which seniors they thought would be making an appearance. They bitched about finals and coveted the best parking spots that would soon be vacated when the seniors graduated two weeks before the rest of the high school finished the year. Danny joined some robotics competition circuit and traveled some weekends. Lydia sought out conferences and sometimes dragged Stiles or Allison with her. Scott worked, a lot.

So, boring.

Which was why when Scott and Isaac told them all to come over to the McCall's for a bar-b-que, Stiles agreed. Scott's mom was going to be away for a Single Lady Vacation, as she called it. Danny and Lydia would both be away for the weekend, too, but that was all right.

.

For most of the bar-b-que, he and Derek stayed at the very edges of the group, opposite each other, but that didn't matter. Stiles was hyper-aware of his existence, how he burned at the corner of his vision. He watched Derek, how normal Derek was, how unaffected.

Derek caught him staring, and smiled.

Stiles turned away, heart thudding in his ears.

.

At some point Scott and Isaac and Boyd picked up their lacrosse sticks and started tossing the ball back and forth in the McCall's backyard. Stiles was buzzing from the beers they'd had, fuzzy around his edges but still perfectly  _there_ , but he definitely, really had to piss.

He banged his way inside and found the bathroom almost by feel, since he'd been to this house so much in his youth. He'd slept on Scott's bed with him, hung out on his couch, hid with Scott in his closet when his parents used to fight, loud. He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror and for a moment was struck by how old he'd gotten, by how many years had passed.

Then he turned to open the door.

Derek was there. He raised his eyebrows at Stiles when Stiles didn't move, frozen to the spot. A moment passed, and Derek teased, "You gonna stand there and watch me?"

" _No_ ," Stiles responded, knee-jerk, flushing furiously. His mind was immediately flooded with images from his daydreams - Derek on his knees in his kitchen, Derek with his broad hands cupping Stiles' neck, Derek with his fingers in Stiles' mouth.

Derek said, "Oh?"

Stiles took an involuntary step back, back into the bathroom, and he knew Derek could hear his pulse. He could probably smell the sweat breaking out over his skin.

"Or," Derek said, trailing a bit. "Did you want to do something?"

"No," Stiles rasped, even as Derek was taking a step closer. His daydreams had gone further; they nauseated him, made him think he was a sick fuck, but he'd still taken perverse joy from them. Had still gotten off to them. Derek took another step and was right before him, his body a line of heat -  _so close_  - and Stiles shook. He hated it, glared up at Derek, anticipated the crush of Derek's lips on him when it happened, even nipped back with his teeth, eliciting a growl. It had been  _weeks_.

He was angry.

He felt himself crash into the sink counter, Derek on top of him, biting. Stiles raked his fingernails across Derek's back - he was wearing a thin t-shirt, and rolled his hips forward at the sting.

Oh, Stiles was  _angry_. Angry that Derek dared, angry that even in the black hole of confusion and hurt he'd found himself, he still wanted it. Derek rolled his hips forward again, pressing hard against Stiles' jeans, and Stiles gasped into his mouth. Somehow, they closed the door. Somehow, Derek locked it.

"You've been thinking about me?" Derek asked with his teeth, nosing along Stiles jawline, almost nuzzling. Too gentle.

"No," Stiles lied, needing friction, needing a burn. He grasped Derek's hair and pulled, and Derek laughed, throaty, surprised at the pain, retaliating by scraping his stubble against the sensitive skin at Stiles' neck. Stiles hissed.

"Okay," Derek murmured, licking the skin he had irritated. He rolled his hips into Stiles' again, and this time he felt the shock in his own dick, his knees catching at the feeling. "Yeah," Derek encouraged him. His hands were working at the button of Stiles' fly, while he worried Stiles' bottom lip between his teeth until it would bruise.

The button gave. Derek dragged the zip down. "Get on the rug," Derek said.

He wanted to remind himself why this was an ugly thing, but nearly fell over himself in his haste to do Derek's bidding, like Derek was the one who controlled his body. The bathroom was just big enough, with a full bath and toilet and sink, for Stiles to get on his hands and knees on the rug and for Derek to loom behind him. He tried not to think about how this was Scott's bathroom. Instead, he thought about Derek's fingers, about his hands, about his tongue. He felt pressure forming behind his eyes but forced it back.

No, he didn't deserve that relief.

Derek was kneeling behind him. He pulled at Stiles' jeans and boxers until he revealed the globes of Stiles' ass, his fingers kneading into the flesh of his cheeks. Stiles pushed back against those hands, sighed. If he hadn't been on his hands and knees then, he'd be trembling.

"You thought about this, too, huh?" Derek asked him, his voice sounding very far away. A blunt finger circled Stiles' hole, and he twitched at the contact.

It shouldn't feel good, Stiles told himself. Wasn't that what everyone would think? So he said, "I didn't think it would take this long," and that was enough.

The next few minutes Stiles felt like were not his own. He knew where Scott kept the lube and condoms - of course he did - and he knew where Derek was going to put his fingers, where he was going to put his dick. 

It hurt, but Stiles wanted it to hurt. It burned, but Stiles wanted it to burn. He said, " _Yeah_ ," when he felt like his body was on fire, and, " _Faster_ ," when he felt like there wasn't any oxygen in the air. Derek punched into him, and it wasn't gentle, but his hands were.

Petting Stiles' hair, running down his back. Stiles drew back his own hand and grasped Derek's, and then he pulled him forward with it, muffling his cry at the change in angle with Derek's fingers in his mouth, and then he spat them out. After that, Derek pushed him down by his neck.

He felt that pressure forming behind his eyes again, and turned his face into his other elbow, because he couldn't let Derek see, he  _couldn't let him see_.

But Derek slowed.

Slowed enough so that that slick-slide of his dick against Stiles' insides was excruciating, made his toes curl. 

"Are you crying?" Derek asked him, surprise in his voice.

" _Finish_ ," Stiles pleaded, clenching around him. " _Come on_." Derek hissed at the pressure. "I'm not crying. It's good. Keep going."

"I'm hurting you," Derek said, and there was horror, now. Realization. His dick jumped inside of Stiles, but it was softening. "I'm hurting you," he said in a whisper.

Abruptly Stiles came back into his body. Every hurt he thought he had felt was a thousand times worse, and every burn hotter. And worse, there was the sharp prickle of shame. Oh, god, it  _hurt_. 

He inhaled sharply when Derek slipped out of him, suddenly clenching around nothing and feeling very bare. His face was wet and he couldn't breathe. His ears rang with a foreign sound. His body was giving out on him.

"Stiles?" Derek asked. A wet sound. Derek tying off the condom.

Stiles heaved in a breath, and then another, and another. Finally, he said, "I  _hate_ you."

"I'm sorry," Derek said, stumbling over his apology. He was pulling up his pants. "Oh, Stiles. I'm sorry. I didn't know. You didn't - fuck,  _no_. This is -  _fuck_. Stiles, what do I do?"

"Get out," Stiles whispered, knowing he would hear. It sounded very loud in the bathroom, anyway. He sat up; he didn't care now if Derek saw how wrecked he was, because he knew he was ruined. Derek had ruined him. He had let him. "Get out!" he cried when Derek didn't move.

The yell stopped activity in the backyard, even Stiles could tell with his regular human hearing. It made Derek pause. "I'm sorry," he said again, but he left.

Stiles didn't care how sorry he was. He climbed into the shower with his clothes on, and turned on the water.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains:
> 
> victim self-blaming  
> control issues  
> dubious consent  
> non-consensual sex that one characters thinks is consensual

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr,](andnowforyaya.tumblr.com) writing fic and taking prompts. And also on [tumblr](paperkrane.tumblr.com) just flailing in general.


End file.
